Not A Thing You Get To Choose

The Capability Of Love

"I could just strangle you Sherlock! Do you know how worried I was?" Mycroft exclaimed as the sun was beginning to set, as they were just beginning to pack up the tent. Sherlock stood shamefully in the corner, folding his arms guiltily and keeping his eyes fixed on the dirt below him. He didn't want to look Mycroft in the eyes; he didn't want to see the anger. He knew that he had been wrong to stay out so late, but in all honesty it wasn't his intention to fall asleep. It was sort of the magic of the moment, it made him forget all the promises that he had made before they parted ways the night before.
"I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock muttered sadly.
"I let you go out one time, Sherlock how do I know you weren't...well what were you even doing? What were you so fixated on doing that you had forgotten your brother?" Mycroft insisted. Well, Sherlock could very honestly think of something that was distracting enough...
"I was just with um, well I was with John. We were with his friends, and there was drinking involved, I suppose I just fell asleep, I'm sorry, I really am." Sherlock lied with a frown.
"You were at a rich kid party, were you?" Mycroft clarified, his tone veering something on amusement. Sherlock just shrugged innocently, knowing very well that he wasn't at any sort of party, despite his obvious interaction with a rich kid.
"Ya, I was. It's ever so easy to make friends Mycroft; I haven't the slightest idea why you don't try it." Sherlock snapped.
"Oh don't turn this on me Sherlock, don't you try." Mycroft warned, however Sherlock just smiled tauntingly at him, for antagonizing his brother was one of his greatest talents.
"I'm not turning it on you at all, I'm just stating the fact, and reintroducing your um...your loneliness." Sherlock said with a shrug.
"Oh stop that, just stop! Help me take down this tent Sherlock, and we'll continue this conversation later." Mycroft decided finally, stepping out of the tent to begin taking it down. They looked around the market for their dinner before going back home in a silent parade, Mycroft leading the way while Sherlock straggled purposely behind with the tent in his arms, Merlin chirping and flying circles around both boy's heads as they retreated back home. Sherlock was feeling quite drowsy, and the idea of going home to a nice dinner and a warm bed was becoming all the more tempting as he tottered around in the cold chill of the dying sunlight. John was on his mind once more, and he was becoming all the more tempted to just admit to Mycroft where he really had been. Mycroft had been trusted with all of his secrets, he was trustworthy enough of course, and yet Sherlock still didn't believe that he would understand love as well as he did magic. He had known their mother when she had the gifts; he had grown up watching her pull bunnies out of hats for him to play with, conjuring flowers out of thin air to make bouquets... Magic was a part of his everyday life, it was something forgivable. Love, on the other hand, was something altogether foreign for Mycroft. He had never fallen in love, he had never even considered the concept, and so how would he ever understand if Sherlock ever told him that he had fallen in love with John Watson? It was a concept far beyond Mycroft's reach of understanding, something Sherlock was sure his brother didn't even want to understand. Not only that, but it was forbidden by much more than the law, it was declared by God that his love was a sin. And so what hopes did Sherlock have that his brother might accept him, now having lost his innocence and added one more tally mark to his list of punishable crimes? As they sat around the dinner table Sherlock was quiet, thinking in his head all of the lines of poetry he was going to write to John, John who surely deserved beautiful sentences written in his honor. Sherlock was rubbish at poetry but it would seem that he was becoming ever better with love, for having been a stranger to it not a week or so ago, he was acting like a full out Romeo here, writing poetry, kissing in tents over picnic baskets. John was lucky to have him, just as Sherlock was lucky to have John.
"So did you have fun then, at this rich kid party?" Mycroft asked with a sneer, taking a rather aggressive bite out of his bread before staring at his brother, anxious for an answer.
"Well yes actually, I did." Sherlock agreed. That was no lie, for he had really enjoyed himself, however Mycroft still didn't seem the least bit amused. In fact he seemed angrier that Sherlock had gone out, rather than proud of his brother for socializing. Maybe he was jealous that he hadn't had these experiences when he was younger, the pride of having friends, the joy of just any old social interaction. Maybe he was just bitter that he had to grow up much too fast.
"Hm." Mycroft murmured, evidently not able to come up with a good enough response to that.
"Look, I'm sorry okay? I said it before, and I meant it. I know that it was irresponsible, and I'm really making it difficult for you to trust me." Sherlock said with a frown.
"Yes indeed, oh yes. Don't expect the luxury of leaving this house ever again." Mycroft teased. Sherlock just frowned, direly hoping that he was kidding.
"Mycroft he's different, you know, than other people. He's kind to me, he doesn't care that I'm poor, I think he genuinely likes me for who I am." Sherlock insisted in a small voice.
"John, right? You're talking about John?" Mycroft presumed with a careless lift of his eyebrow.
"Yes I'm talking about John." Sherlock agreed quickly.
"You say he's kind to you, yes?" Mycroft clarified, looking over at Sherlock as if this was the first of many questions, all that might lead up to the conclusion Mycroft was hoping to get.
"Yes, he's very kind. You say him before, you saw him with me." Sherlock pointed out.
"And does he know then? Your little secret? How do you know he won't go blabbing to his father about the sorcerer he accidently befriended?" Mycroft wondered in a snap.
"I trust him, but he doesn't know, and he wouldn't tell, I'm sure of it!" Sherlock insisted.
"Oh, so you would trust him with your secrets then? Secrets that could get you hanged by the very man who sits at the head of his dinner table?" Mycroft challenged.
"Yes, yes of course I do! He knows a secret of mine already, and I know one of his, we trust each other, we're friends and that's..."
"You told him of something? Of a secret?" Mycroft breathed desperately, his face paling as he began to wonder what secrets Sherlock was revealing to people he barely knew.
"Well no...he rather figured it out for himself." Sherlock admitted with a little flush. Mycroft looked at him sternly, wondering of course, what Sherlock could have possibly confided in John.
"What does he know Sherlock?" Mycroft growled. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously, staring down at his plate shamefully. Obviously he couldn't tell Mycroft, not when he already seemed to oppose the relationship that was blossoming under his very nose.
"It's um; well it's kind of personal." Sherlock admitted in the smallest of voices, almost as if he was ashamed to keep something from his brother.
"Personal? You mean you would trust a stranger over your own brother?" Mycroft challenged, sounding offended in the highest degree.
"I never told him anything, Mycroft trust me, he found out on his own. I had no intentions of telling anyone." Sherlock said flatly, his face growing so hot that his ears began to burn red. Mycroft sat back on the bench in a defeated sort of way, as if he was still astounded that Sherlock would dare keep anything from his very own brother.
"I see." Mycroft muttered, almost as if he had decided he was not going to pry any longer. Now of course they both knew that to be false, for Mycroft was the king of snooping into other people's business, however Sherlock dared not remind him of the fact. Mycroft's silence, in its own way, was his form of a guilt trip. However his stubbornness would pass, in time, and maybe he would even forget about this mishap the next morning. Sherlock could only hope so, because if he had Mycroft trying to worm his secrets from him during every conversation, well that would certainly be a disaster. But no, Mycroft was never going to get this secret from him, he would rather die than let Mycroft know of the things he had been up to in the last twenty four hours. Some secrets were meant to be kept safe, even from the ones who were closest to you. They were kept secret for a reason, after all.